The first leaves have started to fall in the "arboretum" across the drive. It was ten degrees colder yesterday here in Scotland than in the south of England.

Ruach


I stand alone.
I stand alone where once
I stood alone;
Facing the ribbon of islands
And the open sea beyond.

I ask questions.
I ask questions where once
I expected answers;
My toes buried in powdered shells
And slippery bladderwrack.

I wait.
I wait where once
I waited impatiently;
Hearing nothing but crashing waves
And gulls calling above.

But then was never the beginning,
Just as now will not be the end.
Time makes way for the spirit,
Blown in on the wind that strokes my cheek.

I stand alone and find that I can breathe.

In Transit

Swish, swish - from side to side;
The audio-visual battle is fought
Right in front of my weary eyes.
Wipers versus Rain On My Windscreen.
Verdi versus Drifting Into Sleep.

A wet metal Scotland grows smaller
Until it disappears -
Blows away under clouds of destitution.
At last my eyes will rest.

Ninety minutes east the sky glitters
And the heat hits me on the tarmac
In what was once my country.

It is now that I remember
That today is Valpurgis Night
And people will dedicate their voices;
They will sing to New Life around firesides
When I'll head for Ward Seventy-One.

EASTER MORNING

This flower can be seen outside my new study window. It flowers now - in February! It brings me a disproportionate amount of joy. The fact that I have exotic flowers in the midst of winter - here in Scotland, coupled with the ownership of a proper study again. My neighbour, who planted this beauty when it was just a seedling, tells me it originated from Loch Ossian, but he came across it in southern England, where he rescued it and brought it home again!

January was never a favourite. This year is no exception. Had we been blessed with "proper" snow, I wouldn't feel the same... One of the things I really miss up here in Scotland is the proximity to France. This time of year (and others too!) I would set off with a few friends, heading for The Tunnel and ultimately Bleriot-Plage. We pretended it was because it was time to stock up on good wines at reasonable prices in chosen shops. What we really went for was a good stroll along the beach, followed by a seafood lunch at a certain restaurant. Over the years we perfected our timetable; the shopping was done and dusted in an hour, the rest of the time was sheer joy. The only time we stopped in our tracks, was on that day in November, when one of us received a mobile text message. Two planes had hit the Empire State Building, another The Pentagon. We left early and listened to news bulletins all the way back to Berkshire.

NORMANDY MIST

The people-carrier ploughs through monochrome mist,
Making motorway progress towards the coast.
We get out on arrival at Bleriot-Plage,
Slamming the doors shut behind us.

Grey winds grip us: try to treat us like litter
Left on the beach. Resisting, we anchor our feet
In silver-grey sand and look for the white cliffs of Dover.
In vain, of course, because beyond the lighthouse
All becomes an everstretching blur.
Nor can we enthuse over speeding sand yachts -
They remain tethered on a day like this,
When gloom threatens all that exists.

But seafood awaits in Au Cote d'Argent,
Where our reception is warm and familiar,
With an exchange of phrases and French muted smiles.
We sit around our table, not exactly enjoying
Panoramic views. But does it matter
When someone has placed a vase filled with
Winter mimosa in our midst?